


"Yes."

by orphan_account



Series: The Thing He Hadn’t Done [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst and Feels, Heavy Angst, Hints of Fluff, M/M, Memories, Minor mentions of homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25051381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: And just as the answer follows the question, death follows life.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson
Series: The Thing He Hadn’t Done [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815757
Comments: 20
Kudos: 69





	"Yes."

_A tall man with a bright and dashing smile bounces out of a store--a jewelry store, to be precise. In his pocket, clenched tightly in his left hand, is a small, black velvet box. In his other hand is his silver iPhone, pressed securely against his ear._

_“Yes Jemmy, I know… I want you to have it so I can actually propose at the right time!” The man pauses, letting the other person on the line speak. “No. But I want things to be perfect. Alexander deserves that much and--me proposing as soon as he opens the door isn’t exactly…”_

_The man walks down the street, the remnants of his conversation fading away. About three blocks and several turns later, he meets up with another, shorter man-- the very same man that he was talking to on the phone a few minutes prior. They embrace for a second, bright smiles breaking out on their faces._

_“Hello, Thomas,” the shorter man says cheerfully._

_“Jemmy!” Thomas responds and pulls out the box. “Here.”_

_‘Jemmy’ takes the box that’s shoved into his hands and opens it, revealing the ring to the dying light of the afternoon sun._

_“Oh, Thomas… it’s beautiful.”_

_“I know. I mean, I designed it that way,” the man says. While words jump from his mouth in a quick and quiet fashion, the loving tone of his voice is not lost to his friend. “Please keep it safe. Just for a little while, I promise that I’ll ask for it back soon… just--just for a little while. Please-”_

_“Of course I will, Tommy. You didn’t even need to ask,” James interrupts._

_“Don’t call me that. But thank you so much. I… thank you,” Thomas crushes his best and oldest friend into an embrace. His face is pressed into James’ coat, muffling his next words: “I love you.”_

_“Love you too,” James whispers. The two men separate and Thomas gives a sheepish smile, eyes flicking to the box in his friend’s hands. He trusted James with his life; he could trust him with his hopes and dreams for his future._

_“I really appreciate this. Like, I don’t think I could actually plan a proposal if I had it with me. I mean… Alexander isn’t back in D.C. until later tonight and I think I’d just lose my mind if I had it on me,” Thomas confesses, eyes lighting up as he talks about the man he had fallen so deeply in love with._

_James laughs, “Or you just wouldn’t propose. You’d get too shy.” A smirk plays at the corners of his lips._

_“Hey!” Thomas exclaims and swats a hand at James’ arm._

_“You know it’s true! You could hardly even ask him if he wanted coffee and you know that he’s unhealthily addicted to it!”_

_“Ha ha. Very funny…Thanks again. You’re the best,” Thomas says affectionately. Pulling out an envelope, he hands it to James and adds, “You might be right though… hang on to this, too?”_

_“Right. Aren’t I always?” James teases. He swipes the envelope from Thomas’ fingers and slips it into the larger pocket inside his coat. Thomas takes a step away and laughs, throwing his head back._

_“Aren’t you?” he asks._

_“Definitely… So when’s the wedding? And are you gonna invite your family?”_

_“Well… I dunno. Alexander has to accept my proposal first but, if he does… we’ll figure out a date.” Thomas bites his lip before adding, “You know how things are with my family. I haven’t spoken to all of them since my mother died and they don’t approve of my sexuality. If they were to come, they’d probably try to convince me not to, insult Alexander, and tell us that we were committing a sin against God. I might invite Lucy, because she isn’t like Elizabeth or Randolph… I don’t… Like, I miss them, but not enough to let them ruin a happy day for Alexander and me.”_

_“That… makes plenty of sense. I’m sure whatever you chose to do will be fine,” James says reassuringly._

_Thomas nods and starts turning away. Over his shoulder, he says, “I’ll see you later, okay?”_

_“Yeah, I’ll see you then. Bye, Thomas.”_

_Little do they know that this particular encounter will also be their last. Fifteen minutes after their meeting, Thomas is hit by a car. The driver was a young girl, just getting her life started. She had lost control of the car- the tires slipping on the black ice- and as a result, the car had plowed into the sidewalk, hitting Thomas before crashing into a nearby street lamp._

_The young lady was horrified, frozen in her shock as sirens and bright lights flooded the scene. While Thomas was placed on a stretcher and raced away by EMTs in an ambulance, she was given an orange blanket and driven to the nearest police station._

_Thomas died alone in Room 128 at 10:59 on the evening of October 23, 2019. And while James had seen the man later, as he said before, it was not remotely in the way he had hoped. The envelope and velvet box, now sitting on his nightstand, felt like a burden had been placed on his shoulders. He was the only person who could do anything about it… Oh God..._

_What was he going to do when Alexander got back?_

—

When Alexander’s plane arrived back in Washington D.C., he had expected to place his laptop into his satchel, grab the small carry-on suitcase in which he had placed his clothes for the past three days, and walk off the plane. Perhaps he’d see Thomas waiting for him in the airport parking lot and, if not, he’d hail a taxi and see him approximately twenty minutes later, depending on the traffic, at their shared apartment. 

Granted, he didn’t know for sure if Thomas was watching his flight (though in his heart, he knew that Thomas always watched), and he wondered if Thomas had seen that he had arrived earlier than he’d anticipated. Alexander had sent his love a text right before being forced to switch his phone to airplane mode. 

On that note, since he had landed-- since he had turned on his data again-- he hadn’t received any texts from Thomas, whatsoever. For that matter, he hadn’t received anything that would indicate that Thomas had seen his text. The thought twists knots in his stomach. 

The thought is worsened when he sees James Madison waiting. Waiting by _himself_. Thomas may have just been busy--stuck working.

 _At 12:37?_ he thinks to himself, desperate to justify the lack of Thomas. _Well… maybe? It’s a possibility?_

Alexander hopes that it isn’t the case- Thomas, like himself, had a tendency to work too much. Perhaps he had been tired and gone to bed, but… he wouldn’t have had James come in his place if he was sleeping. He knew that Alexander could simply take a taxi to get back home. 

What could have possibly happened for James to get him from the airport in the middle of the night?

James then sees him and starts slowly walking towards him. The man looks awful: his eyes were puffy and red, as if he had just been crying, and his clothes were mussed and wrinkled, no longer in their usual pristine state.

The knot in his stomach grows and he feels faint. It’s almost as if the knot in his stomach is noose tied around his neck and he’s suffocating. He just has to be overreacting. Everything is fine. He’s over- 

“...ilton! Alexander Hamilton!” His thoughts are interrupted by James, who is yelling his name over the bustle of the surrounding people as quietly as he can while still being able to be heard. He turns in the direction of the voice just as James catches his arm. 

“James,” Alexander greets, shooting him a weary smile. He’s tired, cold, and wants to go home. He wants to see Thomas-- but the absence of the aforementioned person puts Alexander on edge. While he isn’t aware of it, his hands tighten around the handle of his suitcase and phone. “What’s wrong?”

James’ hands begin to shake, and his eyes water. The weak smile drops from his face.

“What happened?” Alexander’s demands, his voice taking on an edge of urgency.

“T-Thomas,” the shorter man chokes out, the tremors from his hands traveling to his entire body. Alexander lets go of the handle and holds his friend in an embrace.

“What about Thomas?” he asks, voice steady. But despite the eerie calm to his voice, Alexander is scared. His heart is in his throat and he can’t breathe. He can’t think. 

Whispering, so quietly that Alexander has to strain his ears, James says into the fabric of Alexander’s coat, “He’s dead. Thomas is dead.” 

He can hear a rush of blood in his ears. He can hear the beats of his heart, drumming in his head, and his own breaths mingling into everyone else’s as he exhales into the night air. 

“Wh- what?” Alexander croaks, almost incredulously, because Thomas could not be dead. He just couldn’t be. James sucks in a breath, trying and failing to compose himself. 

“He’s dead… He died... earlier…” James tries to finish but ultimately trails off and hiccups a soft, pitiful sob out. “I just… I had to tell you. I couldn’t… I couldn’t let you come back and- And find out- by yourself- that he… That he wasn’t-”

Every muscle in both James and Alexander go slack, their resolve crumbling and their will to remain composed leaving them completely. The only reason that they are still standing is due to the fact that they are leaning so heavily into each other. James cries into his coat and Alexander presses his face into the shorter man’s shoulder, biting his lip so hard that he can taste blood. Blood and salt… Salt... from his tears. He didn’t even notice when tears fell down his cheeks, and he doesn’t know how long they’d been there.

In the haze of shock, Alexander can hear the words- quiet musings- of sleepy passer-bys.

“Isn’t that that one famous guy from…”

“Is that Alexander Hamilton!?”

“-iton… and Madison?”

“Isn’t he the heir of that one business ca-”

“What are they doing?”

“Aren’t they from that business-”

“That’s Hamilton from _Washington & Sons_!”

“I think they’re crying?”

“Hamilton? Where?”

“Why are they crying?”

“What happened?” 

He can’t bring himself to look at them. He doesn’t remove his face from James’ shoulder, unable to move. He’s too numb and too cold and too empty on the inside to find the willpower to crane his head up and too tired to tell the passing strangers to leave them alone. 

He only thinks of Thomas, clinging onto thoughts of his now-dead lover just as tightly as he clings to James. 

James, his friend who first introduced him. James who listened to him rant about Thomas before he had gotten the guts to ask the man out for dinner.

Alexander can’t feel. He can’t breathe. He can’t even think. He just feels numb. 

—

Alexander doesn’t go home that night nor the next. He stays with the Madisons at their townhouse, a thirty-minute walk away from his own apartment. They join him in his grief, letting it swallow them all whole for the weekend. Mourning the loss of their dear friend. 

He leaves late on a Sunday night, knowing that he has overstayed his welcome. James and Dolley must’ve been eager to have their house to themselves, and he knew that he’d have to face his apartment at some point. 

He walks in the cold darkness, watching his breaths form clouds around him. Once he gets in through the door, he shudders and collapses against the door, unable to move any further, the grief in his bones weighing too heavy for him to move. 

—

Alexander’s phone buzzes, sending vibrations throughout the desk. He ignores it, keeping his attention focused on the laptop and the legal pad aside it, fiddling with his pen. 

It has been two weeks since Thomas died. Two long torturous weeks. Two weeks without a hint of brightness--the brightness that Alexander had associated with Thomas long gone. Dead. Two weeks without the man he loved more than anything or anyone, more than his passion for writing and the love he felt for his mother. _She was dead too..._

In the span of the past week, Alexander has gone to work three days. Two of the days he went because he had presentations to give and they were already finished (they went spectacularly despite the state he was in). One day he went into the office just to collect a few documents before telling his boss and father figure, George Washington, that he would be taking a few days off.

(Which had never once happened in the history of his working career, sans the one time Washington and Thomas had to drag him from his desk and into a taxi, which took the two lovers back to their apartment so that they could celebrate their first Christmas as a couple together.)

While he isn’t at work, Alexander spends almost no time in their- _his-_ room. Sleep eludes him and every time he dares even to close his eyes, he can see Thomas. Everything Thomas. His hair, his eyes, his smile, his obnoxiously loud clothing. Alexander stifles a wet sob into his hand, biting the soft skin there. When he closes his eyes, he can imagine Thomas. 

He can hear Thomas’ laughs, the bright, baritone sound echoing around the space he was in. He can hear his voice--bright as day, surrounding him like a blanket stifling a fire. He can hear everything from loving words to scathing remarks. The ghost of Thomas’ presence haunts him every second of the day--sleep isn’t an option anymore.

So instead of sleeping, Alexander writes. He writes like his life depends on it--like he did when he was on the island so long ago. He writes like there is no tomorrow, because in this moment, he doesn’t feel like there is a tomorrow coming for him. 

He writes about Thomas and his accomplishments. Writes about how much he loves him (did Thomas even know how much Alexander loved him? Did he tell Thomas how much he loved him enough? The thought stings his throat and tears prick at his eyes). He writes and he writes without a pause, desperate to cling onto his memories, as if writing them down will immortalize them. 

Alexander also writes Thomas’ eulogy multiple times over- trying to perfect it in a way that shows the best of his love. He writes it nineteen times before deciding that his seventeenth draft was better and submits that one to the local paper. It’s only after he submits it does he realize that it was about eight pages long and that his desk is littered in papers and coffee mugs.

He doesn’t help much with the funeral arrangements. He wanted to, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave his desk. He helped Mary-- Thomas’ older sister-- with the flower selections, location, and who and who not to invite. But mostly… he didn’t do anything. Mary had only sent him a few texts with questions and he had replied with one sentence or less. 

Alexander still feels cold. He misses the warmth that seemed to follow Thomas everywhere he went. He just misses Thomas. 

In his insomniac, caffeine-deprived moments, there are times where he sits on their sofa (a comfy, leather thing that they had argued over--an argument that Alexander had won and had been pleased to admit as much), looking at the door as if Thomas will just come striding through any second. 

He never does, leaving Alexander to curl into a ball and cry until he has nothing left in him to cry. 

Two weeks ago, Alexander was planning on coming home to the love of his life. He had missed Thomas so much, and while he knew that he’d be back, he had longed to see him again the second he left their apartment. 

He would have never expected to come home and find that Thomas was… He didn’t even think of the possibility. He had not thought, two weeks ago, that he would have been attending a funeral--much less, _Thomas’_ funeral. 

He showers and shaves and tries his best to look like he hadn’t holed himself up in an apartment for days on end. He tries to look like he’s taken care of himself. (He hasn’t, but his friends and coworkers and boss and Thomas’ family don’t need to know that.)

He dresses with a carefree sort of grace, picking a sleek black suit and a matching pair of black dress shoes. He pulls on a green shirt (one that he knew Thomas had secretly adored, or, at least he had always gotten a particular gleam in his eyes, but had never explicitly said anything about it) and tugs a dark silver tie around his neck. 

Alexander stares at himself in the mirror. He looks… like death. (Secretly, he would have rather been dead- he could’ve been with Thomas that way.) The bags under his eyes are a dark purple and hang heavy on his gaunt face. His cheeks are thinner, his cheekbones and nose and more prominent on his face, due to his lack of consuming anything but coffee for the past five days. 

Pulling his phone off its charger, Alexander sighs before meandering over to the closet where his coat is hanging. He opens the door and pulls his winter coat off the hanger, but not before catching a glimpse of Thomas’ things, his colorful coats and many pairs of shoes. Fuck, the closet even smells like Thomas and his pretencious cologne. 

Wave after wave of nostalgia rolls off of him as he clenches the coat tightly in his hands and leans against the door. His legs feel weak and he’s shaking too hard to stand. Gritting his teeth, he stands up and slams the door to the closet and the door to his memories. 

He slides his coat on and almost runs out the door, tripping over his own feet. The door closes with a slam and Alexander leans against it for a brief minute, fumbling in his pockets for the keys which he left there from the time he got home from the airport. 

Once the door is locked, he turns away and walks down the hall, making a right at the stairs. He walks down them, eyes unfocused as he wanders out the doors and into the cold streets of New York.

He walks slowly down the streets and to the nearby church that the funeral service was being held at. It was neither big nor small, and had a few stained glass windows two flanking the entrance and one small one behind the altar. 

He sits down in the pews of the second aisle, right behind the first-- which was designated for family (but Thomas _was_ his family). James and Dolley Madison are there, as is Lafayette. (Hercules had been invited, but he was in Paris doing work for several celebrities and couldn’t go.) Alexander would have loved to see his oldest friend, John, there. However, the man, who was like a brother to him, had died three years ago in a hunting accident.

_Why did everyone who loved him seem to leave?_

Upon seeing him, Lafayette stood from his seat and walked to his friend. He looked solemn, a far cry from the lighthearted smile that he normally wore. When he was close enough, he opened his arms and uttered, “Oh… mon ami. Come here.” 

And Alexander went. Went into the first embrace he had in weeks since the desperate clinging onto limbs at the airport. Instead of clinging onto his friend with everything he had, he fell limply into his arms. He didn’t cry, however--finding a sliver of solace in the action.

Eventually, they found their seats once again (Alexander was unaware of how long their embrace lasted, but after looking around, he could see plenty of his colleagues and friends sitting in other surrounding pews).

The quiet murmurings of the few people in the chapel are silenced as soon as the priest walks to the altar, behind the casket-- which has an assortment of beautiful purple and white flowers sitting atop it--and begins to speak. Alexander does not process anything that he says. Vaguely, in his mind’s eye, he sees people rise, and he copies the motion. There’s a faint humming sound coming from around him, and he realizes people are singing. He looks around and sees that both Lafayette and the Madisons have hymn books open and he tries to sing, tries to read the lyrics. 

But words and coherent thought have been lost on him, and he can’t understand what words are written on the page. Then it stops. And everyone takes their seats once again, with the exception of one of the Jefferson siblings--Thomas’ brother, Randolph--who walks to the front. 

Despite his brother having recently died ( _‘In a_ car accident _of all things’_ Alexander’s mind reminds him), Randolph, like most of his siblings, looks bored at the notion of their brother dying. To Alexander, he exudes an energy of nonchalance.

“Hello. Thank you all for attending. I, like my brothers and sisters-” he gestures to his family, “are very grateful that you are here. It means a lot to all of us. My brother… was my idol for the longest time. When our father passed away, I remember him doing everything he could to help us. I admired him. I wanted to be him. We were so close when we were younger and I knew everything about him. I regret our falling-out and wish we had made more of an effort to stay in touch… He loved us all and was an absolute genius. He was a great man. And while he may be gone, I hope and pray that he is in a better place.” 

He steps down and walks back to his seat- Alexander shifts in his seat and frowns slightly. For someone who claimed to have known Thomas well, he didn’t say much more than generalizations about his character--plus he didn’t seem to know how to address a crowd. Caught up in his musings, he misses James standing up and walking to the front of the room. However, when the man speaks, his mind pauses its wandering for a moment,

“Good morning. My name is James Madison, but Thomas often called me Jemmy. We are gathered here today so that we may remember and celebrate a man who was my oldest and best friend. Our friendship was built over-”

Alexander zones out. He knows about how Thomas and James met in their freshman year, paired together as roommates who did… a multitude of random things. Eventually, he finishes and steps down, walking quietly back to his seat next to his wife. His expression is pinched with sadness, but he taps Alexander’s arm as he passes and whispers,“Would you like to say something?”

The thought of speaking about his beloved makes a lump grow in Alexander’s throat. Nevertheless, he nods, a lot more firmly than he actually feels, and stands up. The walk to the front of the room is not, in any capacity, long, but his legs shake as he walks. When he reaches the front of the room, he turns and clears his throat. 

“Uhhh. Hello, my name is Alexander Hamilton and… Thomas is--” his voice cracks,“--was my boyfriend. I didn’t come here with the anticipation that I would be speaking, which, from those who know me, is something that I am not particularly well known for.” There are a few stifled chuckles from the audience and he continues speaking.

“However, while I have not comprised a six-hour speech,” there’s a few groans and chuckles from the audience,“I will try my best to honor his memory. I suppose the first thing I should mention is that Thomas hated public speaking. He would absolutely do anything to get out of speaking in front of an audience. 

“But, that did not mean that he did not have opinions or was afraid to call people out. Actually, that was how we met. I--like him--have very strong opinions and I have no qualms about calling others out for what I see as wrong. And while I may speak and write to get my points across, Thomas… he did it in a… much quieter way. 

“When Thomas did speak, his speech may have been quiet, but his words demanded the attention of every person in the room- regardless of who agreed and who did not agree with him. And, even when I found myself opposing what he spoke of- which was far more often than I’d like to admit- I could still respect what he’d said.” 

Alexander takes a breath, and pauses for a second. He can see the Schuyler sisters, sitting together in the sixth row. Angelica is wearing a pensive expression upon her face, while tears gather in her sisters’ eyes. 

He sees his boss and his beautiful wife, sitting together; they’re huddled into each other, seeking comfort and sharing their warmth in the cold church building. The thought makes him smile and sad, for he would never have that with Thomas; Alexander wouldn’t have the easy sort of grace with Thomas ever again. He swallows down the lump that threatens to form in his throat.

“Thomas was passionate. Whether it was about macaroni or law or helping people, he did it with his everything. His passion was something that I always admired, something that I found myself drawn to. Granted, it started with arguments, but… Thanks to James, we were able to figure out our differences- though I think he was mostly tired of hearing us complain about each other to him.

“And the way he loved…” Alexander trails off, fighting back tears. “He loved fiercely. He loved helping others. Loved his books and wine. He loved snowy days spent by the fire. He loved music. He loved his work and the community of individuals that he found there. He loved his family- despite never seeing them. He loved his friends. And,” Alexander breaks off, emotion flooding his voice. “He loved me. And I loved him… So much. But to say that I was the only person to have loved him would be incorrect because, I think, that we all loved him in some way. In our own ways…”

He looks around into the audience and can see that there are many wet eyes and tears spilling down cheeks accompanied by nostalgic, bittersweet smiles. The same kind of smile that he, himself, is wearing. (At least, it’s the smile he’s trying to wear.)

“I will miss him. I think I’ll always miss him, because I feel as if I have lost a part of myself that I can never get back. And… I want it back, but it’s impossible. But we will all miss him. It would be impossible to not miss Thomas, a man who, while not perfect, was so undeniably good to us all. Thank you,” Alexander says, choking out his last remarks as the tears in his eyes spill down his cheeks. 

He walks back to his seat, wiping his eyes. When he sits down, one of the Jeffersons--Lucy--turns around and mouths “ _Thank you.”_ Before Alexander can react, she is turning back around.

Dolley places her hand on his shoulder and says “That was beautiful.” Alexander closes his eyes and sighs out, “Thank you. I… tried.”

She gives him a warm yet tearful smile before taking her hand off of him and directing her attention to Elizabeth, who is reading the eulogy in a detached voice, a passionless reprisal to passionate words.

Alexander doesn’t bother to do the same. He knows what he wrote, and he knows that she will not butcher any of his words. He tries not to think of how tragically young Thomas was--only 31. Tries not to listen to the overview of Thomas’ life-- his childhood, his college years, and his time working for Washington’s company. Tries not to listen about Thomas’ final moment--alone (and Thomas hated being alone) in a hospital room, high off of pain medications. He tries not to listen to the details of Thomas’ private life. 

He tries and tries so hard not to cringe at his words--written in a disembodied tone with a hint of familiarity. He squeezes his fists and presses his fingernails into his palms. 

Elizabeth finally finishes reading the eulogy--crediting him before seating herself. The priest from before closes the service in a prayer, which Alexander can’t really hear, because he feels like he’s underwater and drowning in the depths. Then, he hears them all being dismissed from the church and invited to the burial service.

Alex mutley follows along, catching a ride with Lafayette to the graveyard, ten minutes south, in Virginia, by car, without accounting for extreme cases of traffic. 

—

The graveyard is a lush dark green color, contrasting against the grey November sky. The air is crisp, and wispy clouds form from every breath drawn. Alexander walks alongside Lafayette to the plot of land where Thomas is to be buried. His coworkers and friends stand around the six-foot deep hole in the ground. 

The hearse is pulled up by the plot, and Thomas’ brothers and brothers-in-law lift the casket up, taking care to keep the arrangement of flowers on it balanced. They place the casket on the twin strips of green that will be used to place it into the ground. Alexander is very aware of multiple things at once, the second that the casket is placed there. 

First, Alexander realizes that he will never see Thomas again. He realizes that Thomas will never be coming home to him, nor will he come home and see Thomas making dinner or drafting a document or screaming his phone. He realizes that he will never see Thomas’ smile or hear his laugh. He realizes that he will never listen to Thomas rant and rave over good food and wine. He’ll never hear Thomas’ voice. He’ll never see Thomas dressed in outfits so ludicrous and obnoxious that only he could pull them off and look radiant. 

The thoughts overwhelm him as more single flowers are placed upon the casket and the priest prays over Thomas’ soul. Then…

Then, the casket is slowly lowered into the ground and Alexander’s mind blanks. He knows that there are tears falling down his face because his vision blurs. He knows that Thomas is dead. And that his body is being buried. He knows that he’s surrounded by Thomas’ family (to whom he is estranged to because of his sexuality), coworkers, and friends. 

Alexander feels nothing. Nothing but pain and sorrow.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there, but when there’s a gentle hand placed on his shoulder, Alexander shakes himself out of his reverie and notices that one, there are only a few people meandering around the grave, and two, George Washington has stepped next to him and caught his attention. 

Turning his tear-streaked face to his boss, he tries to quickly brush away tears, but so many more flood his eyes and spill down his face that it is useless to try. 

“Sir,” Alexander’s voice breaks on the word. “I...I’m sorry about my appeara-”

“That’s understandable,” Washington murmurs in a low and gentle tone, cutting him off before he can finish his apology. “I am so sorry, son.”

“I- I…” he can’t speak, overwhelmed with a barrage of emotions-- some that he doesn’t even know what they are. Washington brings him into his arms, and Alexander breaks. He sobs into his coat and hugs back so hard that his arms ache. “I just don’t know what to do anymore, Dad.”

In Washington’s arms, he finds a cocoon of warmth-- a hint of something that he hasn’t felt in so long. Well, at least not since before he left for New York. Alexander feels as if he is a broken cup, held together with tape. And now, the contents of the cup are spilling out because there is nothing left to hold it back. 

Alexander doesn’t know for how long he cries in the arms of the man who had given him a family, but he knows that it's not long. He can’t take up any more of Washington’s time-- not when the man has already done so much for him. 

“Thank you,” Alexander whispers, stepping away and wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands. Washington looks to his wife, who is now only a pace away. She smiles of the both of them and then also gives Alexander a hug. It’s brief but motherly, and he relishes in it anyway. 

“That was a beautiful speech,” Martha says into his ear, before she steps away towards her husband. 

“Take all the time you need, son. Work can wait. And, please, take care of yourself,” Washington says, looking him in the eye.

“Yes Dad- I mean, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” Alexander replies, meeting his eyes. His answer seems to satisfy Washington and he turns away with a nod, taking Martha by her hand and walking away. 

He stands there for a second, lost in the sea of unknown territory, but he is saved by the third Schuyler sister. 

“Hello, Alex,” Peggy says under her breath.

“Hello yourself.” 

“I… I’m sorry. Not that it’s any consolation,” she tells him while putting her arms around him. 

“Thanks anyway,” he replies, sagging into the embrace. 

“I’m here for you, if and when you ever need it, okay?”

“Yeah, I know.” 

They continue to embrace for a short time after, and Alexander is proud of the fact that he doesn’t cry then. He… is tired of crying. And while he misses Thomas with his whole being, the feeling after spilling so many tears was awful. 

“Thank you for being here,” Alexander tells her, pulling away. 

“Of course. Thomas was a dear friend to us all. And I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She presses a kiss to his cheek. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“Okay,” he breathes. 

“I mean it,” she replies, sternly, and then turns her back to him and walks away to her sisters who are standing together by their car. 

Alexander’s lip twitches. _Classic Peggy,_ he thinks. He looks around and sees that there aren’t very many people there anymore. Not that there all that many were to begin with-- Thomas wasn’t particularly antisocial, but he certainly didn’t go out of his way to talk to or befriend people--but he was one of the only four people still there. 

James is standing next to Dolley, who is engaged in conversation with Lucy Jefferson--the last of Thomas’ blood family to remain. James meets his eye and walks towards him. 

“Hey,” Alexander croaks, looking at the ground. 

“Hello,” James responds. He sounds just as tired as Alexander feels (and most likely, looks). “How are you holding up?” And Alexander huffs out a humorless laugh. 

“If you couldn’t already tell,” he gestures to his face--he can feel how bloodshot his eyes are, feel the headache building in the back of his skull-- “I look and feel awful. But thanks for asking. How are you?” 

“I… I guess I’m fine. I’m just,” James rubs a hand down his face, and sighs before shaking his head. “It’s… Anyway, I… I have something for you.” He shoves his hand into his pocket. “I probably should’ve given this to you before, but I just couldn’t find it in myself to do so. But I promised Thomas that I’d keep it safe for him, so…” James trails off and pulls his hand out of his pocket. 

He opens his hand to reveal a black, small, velvet box and Alexander blinks. Once. Twice. A third time. 

“This is for you,” James shoves the box towards him, waiting for Alexander to take it. Alexander doesn’t move a muscle, he feels… numb. And he can’t move, despite him wanting to. James’ voice cracks as he continues. 

“Please… he wanted you to have this. He still would if…” 

_“If he were still alive”_ are the unspoken words that float around them, hanging heavily in their thoughts; it is far easier to hear them in their silence than if they were spoken. James swallows, takes Alexander’s hand which is still hanging limply at his side, and presses the box into it. He pushes Alexander’s fingers around it and then meets his eyes. 

“I am so, so damn sorry that I have to be the one to give this to you. I would do almost anything to have him give this to you. And I’m sure that we both would do the impossible to get him back. Alexander, he loved you more than anything. And I know that he would have wanted you to have this so… Please… just take it,” James is pleading with him now, and tears are filling Alexander’s eyes. James reaches into his coat once more and pulls out a sealed cream envelope. 

“Thomas also gave this to me. I’m not quite sure what this is for, or what he meant by me keeping this for him, but I… He wanted you to have this as well. Please take this too.” 

Alexander takes the letter, mutely. He looks at objects in his hands. He feels as if he is suffocating. His grief serves as a noose, and he’s struggling to breathe. And Thomas… he is air. But it's gone. Thomas is gone; he was two weeks ago.

“Thank you,” Alexander says tightly. His voice doesn’t even sound like his anymore. “I’ll read this later…” 

James nods and looks at Dolley, who is looking at him out of the corner of his eye. 

“Well… Dolley and I are leaving now, but if you need anything, just let us know.” 

“Alright… thank you, James. You guys take care,” Alexander says weakly, waving with the envelope still in hand. James smiles, a tired smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. And once again, another person turns and walks away.

Alexander isn’t alone, however. Thomas is here, as is his sister. Not yet wanting to be alone, he walks up to her.

“Miss Jefferson,” he says, as cordially as he can manage.

“Mr. Hamilton,” she replies back. Unlike the rest of her siblings, she looks more like a grieving sister who had just lost her eldest brother. Alexander hums and speaks again.

“Please. Call me Alexander,”

“Then you must call me Lucy,” Lucy fires back. Alexander remembers that Thomas had told him that Lucy was fiery and stubborn. _“She’s a lot like me,”_ he had said.

“Lucy, then… Thomas always told me that you were the most like him.” 

“He said that? Really?” Lucy asks, tears filling her eyes. 

“Yeah. He talked about his sisters and brothers a lot… especially around, well… holidays. I think--no, I know that he missed you all,” Alexander says dully, eyes misting as he remembers the multitude of conversations that they had about his childhood and siblings. 

“Huh… I missed him too. It’s been months since I last talked to him-- years since I last saw him. I never thought I’d see this day so soon, though. Thought that I had more time and so I kept waiting.” Lucy’s tone was full of regret and sadness. 

Alexander hums.“ Well… I can’t say that I had planned on today either. Not for a long time. I had hoped that we would meet under better circumstances too. He held you all in such high regard despite his… basically being estranged and cut off… Oh well, that doesn’t really mean anything now. He wanted to introduce me to you…” 

Lucy makes a strange sound from the back of her throat. “He what?”

“Wanted me to meet his family,” Alexander repeats dully. 

“I wish he brought you around. I wish we met earlier. I wish I saw him more often. I miss him. And regret…” She trails off, voice breaking slightly at the end. Alexander nods. 

“Well… I’m glad that we met. Even though it’s under these circumstances…”

“Yes… I- yes,” Lucy looks down at the watch on her wrist and sighs. “It was good to meet you. And I wish I could stay longer but my flight back to… to Oregon leaves soon and I really must be going. Thank you… thank you for your words, and for caring for Thomas when I could not be there for him.”

“It… have a safe flight. Perhaps we’ll talk again, on another day.”

“That would be nice. Goodbye, Alexander… goodbye, Thomas, I love you.” She says the last bit quietly, as if she only meant Thomas to hear her. 

“Bye Lucy. Be safe,” Alexander responds. She nods, smiling slightly before walking away to a car parked nearby. And then, Alexander is alone… Alone with Thomas, that is. 

“Hello T… I miss you. I miss you so mu-” his voice breaks as a sob builds in his throat. He’s trying not to cry, because he doesn’t want to cry anymore. He just doesn’t know. “I love you. I don’t- I don’t know if you know how much I love but know that I love you more than anything… Please- I… I love you. I just want you to know. I don’t know if I didn’t say it enough or- I love you. IloveyouIloveyouIlove… _you_. I need you to know… just- just…” Alexander is so overwrought with sobs that he’s choking on his sentences and air itself. 

He falls to his knees. He’s not more than a few feet away from the hole in the ground in which Thomas is buried. Despite his tears, he can feel a warm weight encompassing him. Swears that he hears an answering, “ _I know. I love you too, Alexander.”_

Alexander isn’t sure if it's real or just in his head, but he doesn’t _care._

“Gah… Thomas, and I don't even- I don’t know what all of this means… I just- I want you back,” Alexander finishes with a shuddering sigh. He can feel the heavy weight of the box in his pocket. He can’t look at the letter clenched in his fist. He can’t look at the place where multiple flowers lay. The space, Alexander realizes, won’t have a gravestone to mark Thomas’ resting place. Not for a few weeks. It will only be marked with flowers and the heavy blanket of sorrow. 

Sniffling, Alexander pushes himself off the damp grass and walks away. His eyes are watering and he knows he looks like a mess. But the mess he appears to be has nothing on the hurricane swirling inside his chest and in his thoughts. 

He walks back to his apartment, not bothering to call an Uber. He knows that people are giving him looks--the kind that he absolutely cannot stand, but he’s so drained that he just lets it happen. Passer-bys snap photos of him in the depths of his misery as he walks by. And while he is thankful that he is not crying as he walks, he still has the traces of his wretchedness marked all over his face. 

Alexander walks the several miles back to his apartment in D.C., but, despite the fact that the sun is sinking in the sky, he doesn’t feel as if he’s walked for that long. He stumbles into his apartment, pushing his back into the door. His legs give out (Alexander wasn’t even aware that his legs were about to give out until he wasn’t putting his weight on them) and he slides down the length of the door. 

He crawls through the hallway into the living room, not caring that he’s in a nice pair of pants and that his coat is dragging on the floor behind him. He pulls his legs under him into a sitting position and with quivering hands, he pulls the box out of his pocket. It falls into his lap, he’s shaking so hard. Cocooned in the fabric of his coat and gnawing on his lip, he picks up the envelope from the spot on the floor where he had placed it. It’s creased and wrinkled in places from him clenching it in his fist the entire time he walked home. 

He rips it open, the noise of ripping paper joining the sound of his breathing in the quiet of the apartment. (With Thomas, the apartment was never quiet. Despite he’s quiet demeanor in public, in the comfort and privacy of home he was different. Thomas would play his violin, blast music, cook, dramatically read dialogue from his books, or argue with Alexander. His presence filled the room with a warmth and brightness which Alexander is lost without.) 

In the envelope is a letter-- one that isn’t typed, but handwritten in Thomas’ loopy cursive. Alexander swallows hard, pulling the letter-- multiple sheets of paper, folded carefully-- out of the abused envelope. Thomas didn’t like writing-- not like Alexander did, acting as if he needed it to breathe. But… he wrote Alexander a letter. The sentiment in that action alone makes his eyes water. 

_No,_ Alexander tells himself. _I can’t cry right now… I need… I need to read…_

Pressing his fingers to his eyes, he takes a deep breath before unfolding the sheets of paper. 

The letter reads:

_My dearest Alexander,_

_Chances are that I’ve gotten down on one knee with the intention of asking you to marry me--to be my_ husband _for the rest of my days--but, I’ve choked up and can’t utter a coherent sentence. In my anticipation of such an event occurring, I have written a letter so that I still get to express my sentiments as one asking another for their hand in marriage would._

_If you have looked at the ring yet, know that I would have put so many more words on it. But as you once so eloquently said, ‘There are one million, ten thousand, three- hundred words in the English language, but I could never string enough words together to properly explain how much I want to hit you with a chair.’ And while I know I was being threatened in that moment to be hit with a chair, I still love you. Because that is so undeniably a you-thing to do… and I adore that part of you. However, I would like to change that statement. I would like to change it to ‘There are one million, ten thousand, three- hundred words in the English language, but I could never string enough words together to properly explain how much I love you.’_

_I love you. Every part of you. I love your eyes. I love your big, beautiful brain. I love your ideas (even though they may be the bane of my existence). I love your fire. Your passion. I love falling asleep and waking up to you in my arms. I love you. So much that I don’t think I could ever understand the depth of my love for you._

_Through everything that we have done-- everything that we have done to each other, the words we’ve exchanged-- we have overcome a lot. And I could not have been more happy with the result._

_I hope that you’ve been as happy as I have been in the past two years that we’ve been together (and I suppose that we have Jemmy to thank for that). You’ve been such a light in my life, Alexander. You’ve brought me so much happiness and I will be forever indebted to you for that._

_But… while I know that I am asking you to be mine forever, I do want you to consider your own happiness. Because if you are happy, then I will be happy. If you… don’t want to marry me, I promise that I will understand. I have my flaws and problems and ideas. And even though you make me such a much better man, my beloved, I cannot change in a way that would make me perfect. Because I am far from perfect. And while I would try to become_ your _perfection, I would most likely fail in a spectacular way._

_I cannot let you sign away your happiness for me. I will not._

_If you don’t wish us to be wed, but want to stay together, I will be content in that too-- with all the talk of wanting a family, I assumed that being married would be the next step and I apologize if that is not what you meant._

_However, if you do not want a future with me, I set you free of me. My love and affections will forever be unconditional towards you, but I cannot keep you caged away in a relationship if it is what would make you unhappy. I refuse to._

_But, on the other hand, if you decide to accept, I will do everything in my power- regardless of if it requires me to give my mind, body, and soul-- to make you happy. I would kill for you. I would die for you._

_Despite my own sentiments, I just want you to be happy. Even if that is without me._

_The words I was talking about above are words and phrases and sentences that I would not have engraved into the ring. They go around the lines of the following:_

  * _‘Light of my Life’ (which is true, but I would not put something so… cliche on a ring meant for a man who is so far beyond ordinary. It would be an insult.)_


  * ‘You have my Heart’ (which is equally cliche and… well, as I stated above)


  * ‘Beloved’ (a term far too generic for my supernova.)


  * ‘Asshole’ (something I would not put on a ring worth more than 15 dollars, but it was a tempting thought.)


  * ‘Tu me manques’ (which is true, but I decided against it.)


  * ‘High Priority’ (you are my highest and first priority, but I could not label you like I would a file.)


  * ‘My Firecracker’ (you are a fiery thing… don’t say you disagree with me because I am right on this.)


  * ‘You are the perfect idiot for me.’ (I think this would be the other way around though. Not because I am an idiot --thank you very much-- but because… I am one for you.)



_Truthfully, there are others. But… I can’t remember them all. You are the best thing to have happened to me. You’re my best friend, my equal, my lover, my supernova, my sunshine--you are so much more than my words could ever hope to convey… I just know that I love you and want to spend the rest of my life proving it to you. Of course, that is, if you want me to._

_Be happy, Alexander. But… if you would let me, let me be the one to make you happy. Let me be the one to hold you when you can’t sleep. Let me be the one to make you breakfast in the mornings. Let me play you songs on my violin and write sonnets about my love for you. I would compose symphonies and scream declarations of love that could be heard further than Britain. Let me laugh with you. Let me… Let me be a part of your life._

_Even if I do not become your husband, your partner_ _in crime_ _… know that my love for you will never stop, even when I die. My heart is yours and only yours. And it is yours forever or for as long as you shall want it._

_So… if you would have me, will you marry me?_

_With so much love and undying devotion,_

_Thomas_

  
  


Alexander blinks. Then a second time. He reads the letter again. And again. And again. He rereads the letter carefully, scared that he might have missed something that Thomas wrote. The thought of missing anything written on the pages, makes Alexander feel absolutely and completely sick. 

The world blurs into nothing but spots of light and dark multiple times. Alexander can’t breathe. He can’t think… His cheeks are, once again, damp with tears. He clenches the letter tightly, yet gingerly, close to his chest. 

He swallows the lump in his throat and turns his attention to the small velvet box sitting in his lap. His breath hitches as he gently opens the box, pulling the lid up.

Sitting in the middle of black velvet is a plain platinum band. Tears come to Alexander’s eyes as he remembers a previous conversation he had with Thomas.

—

_“Good morning,” Thomas says cheerfully, walking into their bedroom with a tray of eggs and toast and two mugs-- one for Alexander with coffee, and his own, which has two bags of green tea soaking in it._

_Alexander groans in response; he’s never been a morning person. He’s more of a night owl who will stay up until three in the morning to get ahead on the next five cases that he has (those cases always happen to be weeks away). He sits up regardless, frowning at Thomas and making grabby hands._

_With a smile, Thomas passes him his coffee mug and sits the tray of food on his nightstand before sitting on his side of the bed. Sipping his coffee, Alexander reaches over to his right and grabs the remote, which is on his nightstand. Pressing the power button, the TV flickers to life and on to an advertising show._

_The ladies on screen are admiring a set of garish diamond jewelry, commenting on how any bride would be lucky to have a set such as the one currently on display._

_“Those are freaking ugly. Never buy me anything like that. Ever,” Alexander says in good humor, voice rough with sleep._

_“Oh?” Thomas asks around a sip of his tea. “And what would you have me buy, then?”_

_“Something… not like that. Not gaudy as hell. Maybe something more simple. Elegant? Like just a silver band or something… I don’t know and it’s too early for this,” Alexander grumbles, his sleep-addled brain not functioning at its full-coffee-fueled capacity. Then again, he hasn’t even finished a single cup of coffee._

_“Hmmm… very funny. Now remember when…” Thomas replies. Alexander doesn’t pay too much attention to what his lover is saying, still waking up and content to doze off._

—

He remembered. With the conversation and contents of Thomas’ letter still fresh in mind, Alexander’s resolve breaks a little bit more. Tears spill down his cheeks faster as he picks the ring carefully out of the box. 

Engraved on the inside --as Thomas said there would be-- is the simple phrase _‘I love you. - T’_

He wraps his fingers around it, the metal cool against his skin. And then, before he even realizes it, Alexander is opening his fist and sliding it onto his finger-- his ring finger. 

It fits perfectly. 

His heart breaks a little bit more when he realizes that he never even noticed when Thomas was finding ways to measure his finger… he realizes that he will never get to showcase his ring like someone who’s been happily engaged because he is _not._ Alexander curls into himself, pressing his face into the rug in the living room, taking shuddering breaths as he tries to pick up the pieces of his fractured heart, cutting his hands on the jagged shards. He whispers a broken mantra, voice hitching around his breaths as he sobs.

“I would have said yes…. Oh Thomas… if you asked…I would have said yes. I would have said yes. I would’ve said... _yes.”_

—

_“I should have hugged you tighter and longer the last time I saw you.” -- Anonymous_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! [Tumblr](https://bladesnflannel.tumblr.com) (I am sorry to even ask but if you enjoyed this please leave a comment or kudos. I worked really hard on this and as I’m still continuing the series with a heavy base around this work, I’d love to hear what you all have to say)  
> -J


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